Home
by Rhys
Summary: A story about Boba Fett, and finding where you belong.


_I'm sorry I haven't updated my ongoing stories lately. I've just been really busy, but I haven't forgotten them. I apologize profusely for the delay, and hope you enjoy this vignette in the interim._

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**Home**

Fett walked through the small house, gathering the scant belongings he would be taking with him. He had a feeling that the rest would be following him, either launched as projectiles or disposed of as the extraneous mass—the garbage—that they were about to be relegated to being. He was silent as he went about his task; even if he had chosen to speak, it would have served no point. He'd have been all but inaudible under the words of the other being, who was using more than enough for both of them.

Her name was Sintas Vel and they had already said all that was needed. She simply refused to accept that, and was gradually progressing through the stages of loss. Anger appeared to be a particular favorite, and she seemed reluctant to give it up. Fett let the words wash over him, paying attention to the terms but not the context. It wouldn't do to tune them out completely—that could be dangerous—but there was no point in listening to this litany. That was one of many lessons Fett had learned of late, and one of the reasons why he was leaving.

There were others, but in the end, they all came down to one thing: Fett was just too good at his job.

His skills were very in demand, requiring his presence elsewhere. And while he was away he'd learned a lot. Too much to go back. He'd realized that in hyperspace. He'd just completed a job and set the coordinates for here. The _Slave I _was about to exit the planet's gravity well and make the jump to hyperspace when his communicator had pinged. There was another job waiting for him, a fat bounty for an angry Hutt. Fett had of course debated over taking it or not, but his decision took only a moment and the _Slave _had abruptly altered course for a new vector and a new target. But while the decision had been based upon the amount offered, the merchandise in question, and the employer's reliability, none of the factors had had anything to do with the alteration of destination. And when he had realized that he felt not even a twinge of regret about his decision to take the job—one which would be likely to keep him busy for a week or more—he had realized that the place he had been heading to was no longer home.

Somehow, he'd been gone so long that "home" had reverted back to his ship.

Other things had changed, too. It wasn't that they'd grown apart—Sintas had changed little, and Fett still knew her very well. It was just that he knew her like he knew any merchandise, any employer, any competition, any informant; he could predict her actions, even dissect her motives, but there was no longer any emotional attachment. Well, not really. There was a vague sort of fondness, a gentleness, to his thoughts…but those thoughts were couched no differently than his thoughts about the rest of the galaxy. Analysis, not affection, was his primary response. Somehow while he'd been gone, the young Boba Fett she'd known had been replaced by the bounty hunter he'd become.

She'd run to meet him, obviously torn between elation that he'd finally returned and the strong desire to give him a piece of her mind for taking so ridiculously long to do so, and Fett had almost had to resist the urge to dodge and fire at what his mind instinctively classified as an attack. He'd been embraced so tightly he could feel it through his armor, but that was all he could feel. The pressure of her arms had been just that; the pressure of arms. He'd been surprised to find this absence of a response within himself, and had immediately started searching for a reason. Finding none but beginning to understand what that meant, Fett had abruptly stepped away from her and gone inside. Sintas had followed and found him there, staring down at the tiny sleeping form, and had snaked her arms around him. Fett stood, unmoving, somehow shocked at what seemed inevitability.

She reached up to remove his helmet and his hand automatically slapped hers away. That was when the words had started. She'd laughed and called him paranoid and he'd interrupted. "I'm leaving," he said flatly. Sintas argued, telling him that he'd been gone too long and there was no power in the universe that was going to make her let him walk back out that door, and what was the point of working yourself to death when bounties were far from in short supply, and again he'd interrupted. "It's over," Fett had said.

She'd stared, more shock on her face than if he'd slapped her. The questions had come then, surprised and then hurt; he'd answered shortly, his words clipped and measured out as if they were a limited commodity.

"This isn't home," he'd said at last. That sent her into denial, whereupon he had turned away and begun to gather the few things he would take with him. There was less than he thought there'd be. They'd always lived sparsely, especially him; aside from extra clothing and the one or two weapons he had, for whatever reason, not brought with him on his hunts, there was very little in the house that was his. He picked up the weapons and a few datacards that could be useful. A clean jumpsuit went over one arm. The rest he left. He looked at the collection of flatpix and holographics that were the house's main decoration. He expected the urge to pick one up and look at it, expected the decision to pocket one of them, expected to experience some sort of sadness at the loss he was accepting in his leaving.

But there was nothing. He stared at the images, waiting, and felt cold. When had he become this calculating, feelingless person…and when had he chosen not to mind?

It didn't matter. It had happened, it was done. _This _was done. He turned away.

Sintas slapped him. She was quick, he hadn't even seen it coming. Luckily, he was quicker; he stopped himself before his hand landed on a weapon, stopped himself before he instinctively returned the blow. Sintas cursed, shaking her hand; she hadn't been able to hurt him through his helmet, but her palm no doubt had to be stinging from its contact with the hard-edged metal. If Fett had expected to have to fight down the urge to comfort her, he would have been disappointed. But that, too, was done.

Sintas wasn't. Rubbing her palm, she rounded on him, still cursing. She was almost drowned out by wailing; the child had been awakened by all the noise. Fett stepped back into the youngling's room, Sintas following, her face twisted up in anger. She seemed to be fixated on this stage. All to the good; it was probably the best of the bunch, especially for Sin. She'd always seemed to enjoy shouting at someone, Fett recalled emotionlessly. Let her vent her anger; it washed over him like the anger of so many other creatures he'd encountered. Her words might have been better aimed, but like the rest that had been thrown at him of late, they couldn't penetrate his armor.

Anger would last a while, he knew, and Sintas certainly showed no signs of stopping. The next stage was bargaining, but Fett knew Sintas would skip that one. At least, he hoped she would. The bargaining disgusted Fett, and no matter that he knew she was a creature like any other he'd dealt with, some part of him didn't want to have that sort of proof. He didn't want her reduced to bargaining. That would be…distasteful. Sintas was too smart for that sort of display. She'd no doubt move from anger straight to depression, but she was too strong to stay that way for long. Acceptance was next; she had to already know this was over. In all probability she'd realized this before he'd returned, she just hadn't wanted to admit it. It was obvious enough, though, and she'd accept it fast enough once he was gone.

His helmet's sensors had automatically compensated for the noise level, but the child's screams were still quite loud, especially coupled with the yelling from Sintas. Fett tuned them out; there was no point in listening any longer. There was nothing left that needed said.

Silent, he stared at the youngling—_at his daughter,_ he had to remind himself—and felt nothing. It was a child. He could see in it clear traces of his own features. They were obvious more because he'd grown up surrounded by them and was used to finding them in others than because he was familiar with his face—when had he last seen his face, he thought, but without surprise; that, too, seemed inevitable. With study, he could even make out a resemblance to Sintas in the shape of her nose and the curve of her mouth, but that, too, meant nothing. His features did not belong to him, he felt little connection to him, and that was only to be expected. But somehow, he had stopped feeling a connection to those of Sintas, as well. And even seeing the two faces mingled in the form of the child—_his daughter, _he reminded himself again, but they were only words—meant nothing. It was a child. That was all.

Fett turned away. He caught Sintas's wrist as she raised her hand to hit him again. "Sin," he interrupted her venomous rant. "I'm sorry." He dropped her arm and walked away from them.

A button on his wrist gauntlet caused _Slave I _to open the hatch. It was time to go home.


End file.
